


We Survive

by FelicityKitten



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Depression, F/F, F/M, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, I will make the best use of my medical knowledge for fic writing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, living the dream I suppose, okay serious business now, original character mentioned, post-book 3 finale, why does it have that alternative universe attached at the start smh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24078487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicityKitten/pseuds/FelicityKitten
Summary: After thirteen years of living in inhuman conditions, the members of the Red Lotus are each marked and broken in their own way. In the aftermath of utter failure, all they can do is what they do best - survive.(title and chapter titles inspired by song We Survive by Medina)
Relationships: Ghazan/Ming-Hua (Avatar), Ming-Hua/P'li (Avatar), P'li/Zaheer (Avatar)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 45





	1. And You Ask... Why?

**Author's Note:**

> I sunk back fully into this fandom because I like pain I suppose, and I discovered this story in my WIP folder. So with some tweaks here and there, I am posting it. Some ideas were already explored in other stories, but I hope someone will enjoy this anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> setwall - one of other names for valerian. It grows in Asia as well, so it might be present in Avatarverse too. One of strong natural sedatives/anxiolytics, because we have no idea how drugs and medicine work in Avatarverse and glowing water seems to be as far as it mostly goes

Never let an enemy under your skin unless you want them to discover that under hard muscles and thick blisters hides softness and vulnerable as everyone else’s, a heart just as tormented and easily breakable.

Instead slip into a charismatic, cocky persona of a man who knows just how powerful and attractive he is. Ghazan gained many things thanks to that. Occasionally a nutritious meal, a trim of moustache or a day not spent with his ears overflowing with sounds of sloshes, waves, water shattering on wooden surface of his prison. He keeps up the act of a dimwit, not at all bothered or nauseous and crawling out of his skin, being isolated from his element, surrounded by endless, merciless water.

He tries, keeps trying to think of ways to shape water into something else in his mind. He desperately scrambles up faded pieces of memories, searches for her face in the stars. Hair just long and smooth as his, and though he never touched it, he half expected a cool mountain stream under his fingers. Her gleaming grey eyes like rainstorm with the ability to turn sharper and deadlier than the ice she bent to her will so effortlessly...

He feeds his guards carefully chosen words and expressions until all they take him for is a slow-witted fool tricked into following his friends’ radical views in hopes of living more comfortable life.

He lets them laugh at his rigorous workout sessions, for all they know his muscles aren’t enough to move bars of his jail and without earth anywhere near (his guards consisted of waterbenders and firebenders only), what harm can he cause? He snickers back, pretends it’s for whatever silly, vain reason they may think of.

Certainly not the fact that cracks and creaks of his cell is the closest he can get to feeling his element, undoubtedly preferable to sounds of water everywhere around. Wood infuriates him - not nearly enough traces of mineral particles for him to manipulate - it makes metalbending, something he never could get a proper grasp of, seem laughably easy. He probably would have learned it after three months in here - the White Lotus never took that chance.

And anything but the fact that he hopes to be strong enough to carry the incessant weight pressing into his lungs and chest, threatening to suffocate him; to have enough power in his punches to beat out the lethargy echoing its resigned _why_ inside of him.

Certain days, it overwhelms him. His guards find him lying inside his cell, mistaking him for dead at first. At moments of particular hopelessness - like when the sea just won’t calm down and he can’t stomach food or water - he considers begging him to end his misery. Then, remembers the rest - especially _her_ \- what they must be going through, and keeps his mouth shut. He recalled P’Li’s tormented look, louder than any scream she could let out, as they kept hitting Zaheer in front of her to force her to talk. Ming-Hua’s eyes in a haze caused by strong setwall liquor forcibly fed into her. Promises and threats alike, they withstood it all. He has to keep going - for what, he wasn’t sure - wait for it to pass, numb his mind with alcoholic beverage they offered him for the seasickness.

His thirteen years in prison were a masterfully crafted torture - far from causing severe physical harm or bringing him close to death; enough for him to be left marked for good, even if during first days after Zaheer broke him out, his high on freedom seems to last forever. Those usually mean a crash is looming just around the corner, waiting for its trigger.

With familiar faces, time and pain written into them, at least he has the luxury of distraction and knowledge they too are still fighting their shadows - much stronger after thirteen years of isolation and torment. With them, he can ignore the ache seeping into his bones, turning them into lead - and truthfully, metal was always outside his capabilities - just a little bit longer.

* * *

The easy plan to get the Avatar in Republic City and remove Raiko ends in complete failure. Once again, they’ve made themselves known, breaking the invisibility crucial for their success.

What good was it ever for? All the preparations, planning, Zaheer’s assurances… only to start up a chain reaction of mistakes, once again, barely getting away; and then what?

They had been there before, ended up with thirteen years stolen from their lives, the devastating inkling of repeating the same path was creeping up on him.

In his barely thirty-four years, Ghazan already feels as old as a mouldering oak covered by moss - green and lively as first glance goes, but hollow and rotting inside. Just the thought of going through any of it again is enough to send him into dark thoughts again.

He asks Ming-Hua to take the night guard instead of him while the couple gets busy arguing and then soothing the sting of their harsher statements - both loud enough he usually needs to immediately find anything else to do - and it feels like double the effort it should be.

She measures him in a careful look. Not for the first time he feels vulnerable in ways he never experienced even stripped of his humanity in his prison. Just her effect on him, now of all times.

“What’s going on?” she asks, her raspy voice still carrying an uncharacteristic softness.

“Just tired. It’s not that deep, Ming-Hua.” He should know better than to think this would fool her.

“So you’d rather listen to our friends going at it. No comment, no groaning, you’ll just lie here?” she arches her eyebrows, reproach clear in her eyes - not for his actions, but for lying to her.

“Why do you even care?” he mumbles, his words dull, yet still stained with bile he knows she doesn’t deserve.

No flinch, no change in expression, yet her acerbic reply shows him he hit a sore spot. “If you think hard enough, maybe you’ll figure it out.”

She leaves him alone, already on her way to start her watch.

That actually makes him stand up and follow her further from their camping site and away from noises from one of the tents.

She doesn’t speak, just keeps eyeing him from the corner of her vision, trying (but failing) to keep inconspicuous, busying herself with healing her numerous burn marks.

She keeps silent, clearly waiting for him to start. A routine of theirs - the one who comes to the other talks first.

“I know what we stand for,” his voice is tired, so so tired, “and I’d never stray from that. But as we go on, I can’t help but ask what will be the cost.”

Her eyes stay locked on his, expectant. Gray and deep, thousand times more hypnotizing than the poor image he had been trying to conjure up in his cell, never hoping to live to see the real thing again. The sight bring him to stunned silence while urging him to talk his heart out at the same time - he continues.

“We keep telling ourselves everything will change, for the better. But will we be alive to see it? I don’t think so. They,” he paused, bracing himself. Only instead of _the White Lotus_ could such a short word sound so frightened and hate-filled at the same time; for what they did to him, for what they continued to do even as he slipped from their grasp.

“They know about us. They’ll protect their own interests again. We hold even less advantage over them as we once did - so why?”

That word is stretching his ribcage right above the heart. Just like when rain was hitting his face in sharp tiny needles and he was reminding himself of her. The woman who keeps standing by his side yet shies away from his touch he cannot live without - leaving him to crave something she’ll never let him have…

“Why do we hope that our efforts will amount to something? The world isn’t willing to change unless we force it. Do you think we’ll get any thanks when we do?”

“They’ll get us, sooner or later,” his biggest fear shakes itself out of his lips in a choked sound. “They won’t kill us if they haven’t done it so far, but throw us inside our cells to rot. I can’t go back. I’d rather kill myself alone. I-”

“I know how you feel,” her raspy voice interrupts him. She seems to struggle to find words. Understandable. He saw what her kind of torture chamber looked like - such cruel twist of fate his element had been used to cause her irreversible trauma, as hers had been for him - no words would ever come close to encompassing thirteen years of that.

“I still wake up… thinking of another burn I have no chance of healing. Of being treated worse than a dog, mocked, denied my humanity and autonomy all over again. Everything I was helpless to do.”

Her confession silences him, for all he knows her cell was the most humiliating, most degrading to her character, rubbing salt into the wound after a lifetime of proving to others the same thing all over again: she can and she will; she continues to survive even despite those wishing her nothing but death; she doesn’t need anything but respect.

“I can’t wash that away, as long as I live,” her voice is almost too quiet to catch, a rare moment when she allows someone to glimpse past the ice barrier protecting her fragile heart.

“But that’s why we’re here. We need to move forward. So that the past can’t catch us.”

“I know that!” he lets out a frustrated shout because she still doesn’t get it. “But I can’t fight myself forever!”

Then, he’s quiet, afraid to admit his own weakness and of her judgement even more.

“I was sick before, you know that. After those years… it’s so much worse than before.”

He had long forgotten how to cry. Thirteen years of refusing White Lotus to see any kind of vulnerability on him keep his eyes dry even as something inside him keeps breaking.

He grits his teeth and his breaths turn labored instead. The weight is heavier than ever, and for a split second, he almost hopes it will finish the job and his lungs and heart won’t withstand the crush - no more fighting, no more resisting, make it go away-

She keeps silent, her eyes empty of judgement, of anything at all. She adds more water to cover her legs up to the knees with healing layer of glow. 

“I know,” she almost whispers, as if just as afraid to voice out the truth. “I’m hurting, too. But I’m still here. They haven’t defeated me.”

He loves to watch her when she turns reflective and silent like the surface of a lake, calm on the first sight, yet blooming underneath. He loves the contemplative haze in her eyes, the rare moment of vulnerability when she becomes a soft tide, drifting to meet earth, almost close enough to reach. And just like the ebb, she will slip away just as swiftly, he knows that.

“Each breath into my lungs burned, I couldn’t move anywhere to find release, I begged death to set me free of it… but I’m alive and I’m never going back,” she finished and slumps, tired and defeated, a sharp contrast to her statement. When her eyes meet his, they’re glittering with all she won’t let herself dwell on.

“We can hurt together,” she adds, almost hesitant. Her face turns away from him a bit, illuminated by soft mint glow, somehow softening the sunken hollows under her cheekbones.

“And when all of this is over, we can heal together, too.”

Here she is, likely with thousands of reasons to keep her distance, offering him the simple comfort of her presence, even if he can’t promise the same back. Even if he can’t ever promise to not lose himself and give in. Even if she can’t promise to trust him with anything else, she’s letting him have this.

Did it really have to be thirteen years of being cooked alive in a volcano to melt her frozen heart to him? In a rare occurrence, he finds himself flabbergasted and out of things to say.

“Shut up. It’s unlike you to get sappy.” A witty retort, a quick save. Just like old times.

“I know. That’s usually your specialty,” small squint lines around her eyes deepen. “Not my fault you’re too busy with an existential crisis.”

Some things, like joking and snarking about everything that hurts or scares them, remain the same.

He could tease back, but there’s no need to. She reads it in his glance and instead of a dry reply of her own, she smiles in that rare way that reaches her eyes more than her mouth and all that follows is silence.

Being on the same page and not needing anything more, just quiet and each other, is something entirely new, though. If it took thirteen years of pain and misery to end up here, then he guesses he may one day learn to live with that, breathing just a small bit easier.

* * *

Until another reminder of how short-lived all of it was. How failure again cost them their success, luckily not freedom. How despite being labeled freaks and dangerous criminals, they were not invulnerable.

Their dear friend fell first, what Ghazan just couldn’t accept in his mind. She and Ming-Hua always pulled through, no matter what. Their strategist lost all of his heart and only clinical detachment remained, somehow, not without flaws on its own. 

He battles the intense fear that this is the dead end they’ve been running from all this time. Such thoughts don’t belong into a heat of a fight. They can still save this. Not her, though, the most feared and despised out of them, now simply another breakable human in her death. But something, at least-

That firebending kid emerges from his fight with Ming-Hua, with her nowhere to be seen while his brother just had to counter him with the biggest amount of luck in this most crucial moment. Thin thread of his composure snaps. If she’s not coming, then she’s-

As brothers urge him to give up, the image of prison is the final piece that sends him spiralling down.

_No. Anything but._

Years of maintaining his physical condition only to bury himself in his own element without any will to fight back against it. Why struggle? Everything he had is breaking apart at the seams and all he has left is enough freedom to end it on his terms. He placates himself with the thought he avenged her death - numbly aware the Bolin kid’s newly acquired skills will probably keep both of them alive - it makes the ache a little less throbbing.

As he falls through another layer, water fills his nose and as he swims up - _why not just stay under, why_ \- he hits something soft. With sharp pain like a stab right through his ribs, he realizes and takes her into his arms, first and last time. Only to feel her body convulsing and gasping for breath, clinging to life he himself was so quick to give up on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was first chapter, hope you enjoyed even though it was sort of dark at times. I tried my best to show Ghazan's struggles with depression and suicidal thoughts which could explain how quickly he snapped in Book 3 finale.
> 
> There will be more to come soon, but if you liked this, please kudos and comment, it really is a boost like nothing else (except a nice espresso, I guess). Us writers live for feedback.
> 
> As always, take care and stay safe in these trying times :)


	2. Your Heart Lost Its Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter from this side project of mine, continuing where the previous one has left off, this time from Ming-Hua's POV - I hope you'll enjoy this :)
> 
> trigger warnings for blood, injuries and medical business around them, mention of death (though if I may spoil, rumors of said death have been greatly exagerrated), discussion of suicide attempt
> 
> and for whoever needs to know, there's some borderline NSFW stuff - nothing explicit, though

The first sensation when she comes back to herself is pain - burning, itching under her skin, soaked deep in her muscles, until every breath she fights so hard for feels like double the effort it should be - its excruciating agony almost not worth it. Her ribs seem to protest her inhales, her sternum aching.

But somehow, there’s him, quiet and serious, eyes heavier than she remembers them being before, and Spirits know that after the prison, the spark in them has been so much easier to extinguish. Out of every fucking thing that went wrong - worse than she ever expected, even - he’s the only part of it that makes sense - her constant, her ground she comes back to meet every time, like a wave.

He murmurs: “Hold on, Ming-Hua, don’t you quit on me now that you’ve lasted this long.”

Maybe he thinks she is not conscious enough to catch it. Or on second thought, he must know she’s awake; he’d go for something much more saccharine and sappy if he thought she wouldn’t give him her characteristic unimpressed glance and a snarky remark. And while her life is hanging on by a thread after that damned kid got lucky, she can shamefully admit - in front of herself at least - that she minds only half as much as she leads him to believe.

“Water,” Ming-Hua croaks out, her throat spasming around the word.

As if she just woke up from some wishful, delusional dream, back in her prison cell - craving the very part of herself they keep denying her, along with her dignity. She almost forgot how it felt like… to be whole, independent, proud. They took everything, but she’d rather burn alive than let them see her break.

Her grim thoughts are interrupted when she feels the cool embrace around herself. The water stings on her burned skin, but she welcomes it anyway. Now, that she’s connected to her element again, she knows the pain is temporary, she can fight anything; she will prevail, like she always does.

Ghazan has the decency to disappear somewhere else while she gathers every last bit of her strength to strip and submerges herself fully in the underground spring. Then, under her guidance, the water almost vibrates, the frequency carefully honed to bring only the most efficient result. The cave is alight in turquoise glow.

Burns are her least favourite injuries to treat, even worse than the ruptured mess of vessels and tissues that are contusions. Always were, even before that torture cell of hers made it personal. The jerky, pulsing pain of broken cells, repaired layer after layer, the fluid and autolytic enzymes washed away, is making Ming-Hua sick.

The next part is tricky - lightning made a mess of her muscles and the crushed fibers could clog her kidneys. She can’t let the protein just follow the flow of her bloodstream, instead she must move in slow, meticulous process, treat her injuries part by part. Just the worst of her torso and perhaps one leg, for now, as much as Ming-Hua hates being incapacitated for longer than necessary.

She checks her heart, afraid of what she will find - the electricity running through it made a mess out of its rhythm. It even eventually stopped contracting. Her ribs are fractured - Ghazan probably tried his best to keep her alive while she was hanging on that narrow precipice between life and death. Her cheeks colour with shame - and something else, if she is honest.

As she closes her eyes, observing the beat as it spreads out from the atria into ventriculi without any hindrances, she finds nothing amiss. The damage, the weak spot she's searching for can't be discovered on physical level, anyway.

Instead, to distract herself from the unpleasant sting of pins and needles of the healing process, and from dangerous thoughts she can’t let herself dwell upon, Ming-Hua reminisces. Not the prison - each time she slips into those memories, her body feels scalding hot, cooked alive, dying of dehydration all over again. Instead, of times long gone, when as much as she was sick of the world, things were more simple.

Thuy, her overprotective mother who somehow managed to see her as a miracle and deficient at the same time. More than half of Ming-Hua's efforts to learn were to prove her wrong. She never really understood her daughter, which left Ming-Hua's memories of her stained with something infuriating yet bittersweet.

Then Ikiaq... that odd stub of a woman, for a brief while her healing teacher - thanks to her, Ming-Hua knows all about how to attempt to treat her injuries. Almost as thick as she was tall, with a messy braid of almost white hair, her deep voice as she chuckled to herself - most of the time happy to indulge in it on her own, not revealing the joke. When she did, it was without reservations, not shying away even from Ming-Hua’s disability, which took her some time to get used to.

People tended to speak about it in hushed tones or with pity, which she despised with every fiber of her being. Ikiaq has been different - her dark eyes always carrying a spark of mischief, but never malice. Never asking, always knowing. Never taking people for anything else than they were.

When _those three_ joined in, accompanied by a scruffy-looking adult with unfocused gaze and a wrinkly, stern woman around Ikiaq’s own age… that was fun. All of them carried signs of a lost battle, probably even more in their minds than on physical plane. Little did Ming-Hua know what would come out of it…

Splitting pain erupts in her ribs as she focuses her healing there - nudging the flow of blood into bones, bringing nutrients necessary for the remodelation process to start. Surprisingly quick, more than cartilage or tendons with less vasculature to build from, yet torture nonetheless. Ming-Hua grits her teeth, withstands it, even as every breath she takes sends fresh waves of persistent jabs through her thorax.

She doesn't know how long it lasts, only that she needs to take a break very soon, or she will pass out.

Just in time, heavy steps close in, louder than he'd usually go for - for her sake, so she can get ready. Ming-Hua steps out, reluctantly drying herself of every last drop and slips into her clothes, not without pain. She almost has no strength left. Ming-Hua leans on a rock behind her back in a half-sit, the position merciful for her labored breathing. Standing would be preferable - her anxiety when guards were looming over her form, looking from above with disgust, alive and kicking - but she won’t risk a fall.

Ghazan doesn’t bother letting her know, but only because he knows her so well - aware that if she was able to heal herself and remain conscious, she’d be dressed.

When he approaches her, his eyes scream with all the words he won’t let himself say. So much is melting underneath, waiting to be let out - just like his element.

“Feeling better?” he whispers, voice hoarse. He looks at her like she will disappear if he stops.

“It will have to do for now,” she replies evasively, distracting herself with changing shapes of her water arms. Ming-Hua knows this kind of stare well, and while she knows he would never, under any circumstances, start something she wouldn’t agree with, she becomes unusually tender and unsure of herself if she’s subjected to it for too long.

He understands the hint - as always. He turns around, and perhaps it’s meant to hide vulnerability of his own - she can return the favor and let it be.

* * *

Altough Ghazan brings food and spare clothing, Ming-Hua is reluctant to eat more than the thick broth he cooks up, and only because she needs the energy to continue the healing. At this point, eating too much poses a hazard. Her body still may react badly to the injuries, causing her digestive system to shut down and prompting a cascade of destructive inflammatory reactions to start - though if she remembers correctly, firebenders were the most prone to it. How fitting.

Waterbenders need to be careful with their blood flow, she recalls more. Hypertension, oedemas, kidney failure, sensitivity to hypovolemia and dehydration. Ming-Hua scoffs at the bitter irony of it. If the cell she was stuck in didn't do the job, she doubts some lightning burns will. Still, she's as patient as she needs to be, not rushing the process.

Her right leg is significantly more messed up - under layers of fried muscle, she discovers clogged veins, a disaster waiting to happen. Dissolving them too fast will send the clots right to her lungs. Instead, she encases her thigh in a thick layer of water, the glow dimming and intensifying in intervals of several minutes - slowing and quickening the blood flow to keep circulation intact and keeping the thrombi in place at the same time as the vibrations of her water penetrate them and wash away tiny, safe pieces bit by bit. Compared to restructuring her bones, it's quite pleasant. Just low, barely noticeable vibration.

"How does it look like?" Ghazan moves closer to her, mouth still full of pan-fried noodles.

"It's difficult to concentrate on, but otherwise manageable," she answers.

"Fine. Won't bother you," he grumbles and moves to stand up again.

"That's not what I meant," she protests, even though she's fully aware not having him around would probably work better. However, there's something going on underneath his usual demeanor that's concerning her quite a bit. Maybe she can take a break and spend some time on him instead.

"Sit down, Ghazan."

He does as he's told - uncharacteristically quiet, avoiding her eyes.

"Your shirt," she points with a frozen tip, already expecting his reply. _'Spirits, Ming-Hua, at least ask me out for a nice dinner first.'_

Silence.

Her stomach jumps a bit as his sculpted, tattooed torso is revealed - bruises apparent even on his dark skin. For a brief moment, she imagines running the tips of her ice across it, making him shiver from cold and pleasure at the same time - then pushes that idea down with guilt.

She envelopes the biggest spots in glowing water again, even as he hisses out in pain. Under his skin, spilled blood and tender flesh. And, she suspects, something much more heavier. She isn't sure what happened, but with him as down as he is now, there aren't many options.

"Are they still looking for us?" she tries.

He shrugs. "Suppose not. I was very thorough in bringing this place down."

She sharpens her water just enough to prod him. "Any special motivation behind it?"

His shoulders hang lower. He refuses to say anything.

"Come on," she insists, softer than usual. "I will never turn away, no matter what you say to me."

His lips quirk into a wry smile at that, but he swallows down his reply.

"Let it be, Ming-Hua. I'm tired," he lets out a long sigh.

She has one shot at guessing, but knowing him as well as she does, there's only one thing he'd be this ashamed to admit to her. To her, of all people, who fought through the worst of it.

"So you wanted to send it all to Fog of Lost Souls. If you expect me to hate you for it, try again," she dips her words in enough sourness to conceal the true amount of care and concern in them, but Ghazan will probably recognize them for what they truly are anyway.

He blinks, pulled back from his grim mood a bit. Then he slumps again.

"It's not all," he mumbles, then gives up his stubborness after a few seconds. "You didn't come back. That firebending kid did, instead. If you were gone... what reason did I have to hold on? So they could throw me back to prison?" he laughs, the sound inappropriate and with a frantic edge.

She stares, surprised by his words. Okay, she _knew_ \- everyone with more emotional awareness than Zaheer did, probably. But to protect herself from disappoitment, she led herself to believe that on his side, it was just a crush which would come to pass on its own. Only to be rid of the responsibility to examine her own feelings further.

Her heart, despite being perfectly alright and with no leftover arrhythmia, does a strange thing in her chest. It's her turn to look away. Yet, at the same time, he deserves to hear some kind of reply, she owes him as much.

"I will not go down so easily. And...." she braces herself for the next part, "I'm here. You don't have to carry that burden alone, so stop trying."

He turns his head to look at her - his eyes are like a physical touch on her face, the kind she wants to lean into. But now is not the time. They aren't even fully healed, barely out of the worst.

"Turn around," she forces her voice to grow stern. "I need to work on another bruise."

They both know with her water tendrils, she has absolutely no problem reaching from her position as it is, just a slightly different angle. Yet Ghazan obeys without a single word, and once again, Ming-Hua is thankful beyond everything for his perceptiveness. Just like the shore - when she pulls away, he remains steady, doesn't chase her. She only hopes the next part is correct as well - once she's ready to return, he will still be waiting there for her.

* * *

“I went to look for her,” he tells her when he enters their hiding spot several days later. 

Ming-Hua feels as if her heart has been stabbed through with an icicle. Survival, relentless effort to recover as soon as possible, so they can run away, so they’re not discovered - or rather, so she is not stuck in this confined space with him, with nowhere to hide from his longing glances, tinted with such melancholy she finds her defenses crumbling - stubbornly kept thoughts of P’Li from her mind. Now it’s all coming back, sweeping her up like a tsunami - and so unlike herself, Ming-Hua is gasping for air as it pulls her under.

“And?” she can only allow herself this short word, her voice is too thick to manage more.

“Nothing,” he croaks out, then slides his body down into sitting position against the wall, his legs spread out in front of him, his hair a mess.

“They cleaned everything, not a trace of blood, of a burial site, nothing at all,” he pushes through clenched teeth, desperate. The ache spreads like poison.

“Don’t,” she tries to sound harsh, but there’s fragility underneath.

“You think I want to?” he raises his voice. “They just… got rid of her and we don't even know where - like some nameless dog, like she didn’t deserve any better, like she didn’t matter-” he brings his fist down to the ground, cracking it and scraping his knuckles raw. Another hit follows, and another.

She grasps his wrist by her water tendril, immediately immersing it in glow.

“Hurting yourself won’t bring her back,” she speaks, voice hard, and searches for his eyes - they’re red, his face wet with tears spilling.

“Like you care,” he murmurs, tensing in her hold.

Something in her snaps, the barrier keeping every weakness hidden breaking into glittering ice shards.

“Don’t you dare!” she yells out. “Don’t you fucking dare tell me what I do or do not feel! I loved her just as much as you did!”

Ming-Hua remembers Zaheer’s dispassion and even though he’s not there, she wants to slap him; P’Li was dead, he saw it with his own eyes - loved her more than life itself; so how come _his_ chest wasn’t tearing itself open in rage and grief? How could he stand it, telling them without as much as moving a muscle?!

Breathing hurts and she starts coughing violently. He springs to his feet, awkwardly bumping her back - with the same hand that just shattered the ground, now so tentative and gentle.

_Would it be like that if he touched me with affection? If I finally let him?_

The idea makes her lose her composure, but it’s difficult to push away.

“I’m sorry, Ming-Hua. I was being an asshole,” he mumbles his apology, still sniffing. Her own tears seep closer to the surface.

“Aren’t you always?” she laughs, but it’s watery and mirthless. His mouth corner lifts up.

Their eyes meet. So much left unspoken is hanging in the air, even interfered with their pain of losing P’Li. Ming-Hua is vaguely aware of his hand on her back. Just to pin her attention on something else, she encases his bruised, bloodied hand in her water tendril again. It feels more intimate than it should.

_Think of something, anything._

“You know,” she starts, feeling more clumsy than she probably ever was with him, “for a while, I had harbored this unrequited crush on her.”

Just as she finishes the sentence, Ming-Hua is struck with the full force of her stupidity. Her eyes burn with unshed tears again.

Ghazan chuckles. “Thought so. Personally considered her my sister, so I can't quite relate, but she was beautiful,” his voice dims and falls heavy on the last part.

_Was. How definite it sounds._

_P’Li always seemed so… invincible. More than anyone. Now she’s gone, just like that. As if all of us are but a dust in the wind, running from something always faster than us._

Her lip is quivering. Ghazan notices, obviously.

“We can talk about something else, if you’d like,” he offers, but she’s done fighting it. What is it good for, anyway? They were tricked into believing they had more time - even Ming-Hua, ever so conflicted about the fluttering mess Ghazan always seemed to turn her into; she kept them concealed, pushing away each insistent wish with promises of _later, when all of this is behind us._

“No. She deserves as much as us mourning her properly,” her voice cracks and she gratefully accepts the cradle of his arms as she breaks down sobbing, bitter tears she’s kept inside for thirteen years leaking out, the gaping wound in her heart salted by them.

Back then, giving in felt like making her suffering even worse - every drop of water too precious to waste, even more when it would serve something as trivial as crying. Now they flow like a flood, leaving the front of Ghazan’s shirt thoroughly soaked, but she’s not even aware of it - the noises she makes are pitiful, tormented, graceless; he holds her closer, caressing her hair, even as his own tears pour out somewhere on her nape.

By the time she’s spent them, Ming-Hua feels laid completely bare in front of him, and shame rises inside her. So long, she kept herself guarded, all too aware of her own fronting being nothing more than an illusion - vanished into thin air in the face of P’Li’s death. But to show him just how pathetic she could be… 

Reluctantly, she pulls away, meeting his gaze - just as clouded with something dark and sinister, but full of tenderness at the same time. His corners don’t move, but he almost looks as if he was smiling. It’s softer, more subdued, yet overflowing at the same time.

It’s the same as always. And then another moment of clarity comes - it will always be like that. It’s unconditional and hers to take, should she want it.

In the face of their loss, her thoughts should maybe wait for a better time, but this experience showed her the ugly truth of it - there will never be a perfect moment. If she wavers enough, she will lose them all in one mistake.

_I almost did already._

She rises up on her tiptoes, crashing her mouth into his. He gasps in surprise and for a moment, stands frozen, but then he tangles his fingers in her hair, kissing her back with enough enthusiasm to make her dizzy, as embarrassing it is to admit it.

His tongue finds its way into her mouth and she reciprocates, holding nothing back. When he stutters out a sigh into her mouth, Ming-Hua feels drunk with it. It feels right, like a natural step, yet at the same time the novelty sends arousal crackling through her veins.

He almost falls to the ground in his haste, pulling her into his lap and connecting their lips again. It’s rough and messy and desperate, tainted by their grief, but against all odds, it’s happening.

The taste of him is addicting, just as she knew he would be, and he touches her as if she were made of glass, fragile.

 _No,_ she corrects herself in her mind. _Precious._

“Ming-Hua,” his tone is a reverent, husky whisper as he stares at her in awe. She is straddling his lap, way too aware of the hardness poking between her legs - and feels her own wetness responding. Almost poetic - like their elements, they meet in the same manner.

She rises herself up with her hips so she can press her forehead against his, her eyes not leaving his. Then she lowers herself down, brushing tantalizingly against his erected cock. His eyes widen, the black of his pupils swallowing their colour entirely, as he moans.

“A-are you sure?” he manages to let out, even as his hand moves suspiciously low down her back.

“I am. Are you?” she raises one eyebrow in challenge, yet the idea of rejection stings too much to bear.

“Spirits. Ming-Hua,” he laughs. “I’ve wanted this for years. But a lot has happened. I don’t want us to do this for all the wrong reasons.”

Sadness cools her passion for a brief second again, but then she’s resolute. Done running. Done with life where nothing is forever. If they are to end up like their dear friend soon and don’t even know it yet, she will get to have this.

“Bisonshit,” she pushes herself even closer. “We will do it for all the right reasons.”

His eyes blaze with intensity that thrills her. A matching fire pools in her underbelly, warm and delicious. She’s ready to dive in and swim.

When their lips and tongues meet again, they leave all their hesitation behind.

* * *

When she wakes up, Ming-Hua is aware of body heat enveloping her from behind, shaping itself around her petite form like a missing puzzle piece. Ghazan’s hands are clasped around her waist. She is sore in all the ways she wasn’t two days ago, but this kind of pain, she could get used to. She can’t even remember the last time she came so many times, and so _hard_. Ghazan was just so set on being the best she ever had - and he might be, but she won’t tell him that.

The euphoria is short-lived - she remembers all what led to it, their loss too abrupt for them to be able to deal with it in a healthy way. It definitely contributed to their - well, what to even call it, except the best sex of her life?

“Hey,” his voice tickles in her ear as he leans over her, pressing a kiss to her neck. She tenses.

_I’m not good at this. I shouldn’t have let this happen if all I can manage is fuck it up._

“I can hear you thinking, Ming-Hua,” he pokes her side and then rises up from their makeshift bed to give her space as he retrieves his clothes. He always reads her so well.

She dresses herself too and gathers her water arms - once she feels the cool touch at her shoulder stumps, she feels more ready to face the harder part - to face him.

“Look,” she steps closer, averting her eyes, yet determined to make this right. “I am not… used to this.”

“This?” he half-grins, trying to appear nonchalant, but she sees past the facade.

“Don’t front,” she scolds him. “Whatever happened, it meant something. For us both.”

Ghazan lets out a breath, tension leaving his body. “It did. Of course it did,” he steps closer, then halts again, afraid of crossing a boundary with her. Always second-guessing. She meets him halfway, leaning her head on his chest as he embraces her.

They stand there in silence, not needing anything more.

“You know… as much as everything hurts, I feel hopeful as well,” she hears the smile in his voice, his breath warm in her hair.

“I am scared to hope after all what happened,” she speaks softly, the vulnerability such a new thing.

“I realize I have only now - or regrets for the rest of my life,” she confesses, hoping it can be enough.

He huffs out a laugh. “I’ve had thirteen years to stew in mine. At times, I dreamt of what I would tell you if only I got one more shot to try. When it happened, when I saw what you’ve been through, I knew it could never be that simple,” he chuckles, the sound laced with bitterness.

She manages a grin, thankful as always for the way he seems to understand her on a deeper level, hoping he can feel it pressed so close to his heart.

“And the last plan,” he chokes a bit, “I was ready to go under, when I thought I lost you. I wanted it to be over, on my terms. But once I felt you breathing, I had to try - your life wasn’t mine to take on a whim.”

She flinches at the casualty with which he describes ending his own life. He’s always been good at this - Spirits-may-care attitude, humor instead of harsh honesty - so much hurt swept up under it, though.

_Your life is important to me as well, you oaf! Don’t treat it so carelessly._

“I know, I know,” his hand brushes across her shoulder blades in a soothing manner. “Won’t do it again next time, I promise.”

She dares to raise her head and look at his face again, though she knows how it might end.

“What I meant to say is…” Ming-Hua could swear he was flushing, as hard as it was to distinguish it on his dark skin, “I may not always be there for myself, but I will always be here for you. Whatever you need from me, I’ll try my best. I won’t push.”

His eyes burn on her face. Damn him and his sweet talk, he’s turning her into a mushy mess of feelings.

_There’s truly no turning back from this._

And maybe it’s for the best. She doesn’t want to pull away, as much as it still scares her. He’s trying so hard to be considerate and she’s just about had it with his sappiness.

“It’s okay, Ghazan. I love you, too,” she smirks, surprised how easily the words slip out, and not because she doesn’t mean them. That’s the deal - she does.

His reaction is priceless. His mouth falls open and he blinks several times - looks like he is about to pinch himself, if she’s frank.

“You can’t… just say it like that!” he sputters. She shakes her head at him, exasperated, yet fond.

Then the mood shifts - he smiles in that rare way that makes his eyes shimmer with emotions, tentatively cups her cheek in his hand and leans closer. She has to stand on her tiptoes to reach him, but when their lips meet, it’s worth it.

She doesn’t know how long they stand there like that - trading soft kisses and heated sips of air, so different from their passion a night ago - but she loses her head to her heart, forgets all about the misery that brought them here. There may not be a _tomorrow_ for them, not in this world so set on eradicating them and their ideals, but they will steal as much of _now_ as possible and enjoy it while it lasts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was, believe it or not, the first time I wrote Mingzan as more than implication. Please leave kudos if you enjoyed the story and tell me your opinions, good or bad, everything counts :)
> 
> As always in this difficult time, stay safe and take care :)


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